


Antebellum

by Yessydo



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anachronic Order, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father Figures, Friendship, Mentorship, Multi, Organized Crime, Physical Abuse, Platonic Relationships, Time Skips, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessydo/pseuds/Yessydo
Summary: In 1987, Winston meets the boy who would become the Baba Yaga.27 years later, they prepare for war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of timeline notes:
> 
> I figure John Wick as being quite a few years younger than Keanu Reeves. I make him around 40 in the films and 13 in 1987. Winston I've allowed to be the same age as Ian McShane, making him 45 in '87 and 72 in 2014.

Everybody knew that John and Winston had history. There were no such thing as secrets in their world, and neither of them made any effort to downplay the extent of their association. It had gotten them both in trouble on more than one occasion, each one roped into the disagreements of the other. Friends were a liability in their line of work, emotion a sign of weakness. The Adjudicator had made it perfectly clear during their investigation that Winston’s death sentence was a direct result of his sentimentality. He had afforded the goals a friend a higher importance than those of the High Table, and had only managed to escape his fate through a risky combination of bravado and brutality. The Adjudicator had been openly impressed with Winston’s callous cunning as he shot the man he had gone so far to protect, sending him crashing to the pavement to demonstrate his fealty to the Table. He couldn’t help but feel a little badly that there hadn’t really been time to warn John of that part of his plan. He was a smart man, though, and the King could help him put two and two together. Winston only hoped that John’s inevitable grudge would wear off before his bones were set again.

While the fact of their friendship was common knowledge, very few people were aware of just how long Winston and John had been acquainted. He had first encountered little Jardani Jovanovic in the fall of 1987, nearly six years after he had been instated as the manager of the New York Continental. The Director of the Tarkovsky Theatre paid a visit him a visit one October morning with a sullen, dark-haired teen in tow, asking for a meeting. Winston was surprised to hear from her so soon. She had come to him a few weeks prior asking for assistance in a matter involving an unaffiliated Chechen school, but that transaction had been completed a few days since. Regardless, he led her through the door behind the front desk and into his office. The boy did not follow, stepping off to one side. Winston shut the door and strode to the far end of the room.

“It is always a pleasure to see you,” he began, pouring himself and the Director each a glass of Armagnac and gesturing for her to sit down, “However, I had thought our business was concluded for the moment.” The Director nodded, taking a shallow sip of brandy,

“It is,” she replied, flatly, “and I thank you again for your help. I have come to deliver your renumeration.” Winston quirked an eyebrow. “Jardani, idite syuda” she called. The boy stepped into the room and she continued, “as previously mentioned, the funds of the Ruska Roma are currently spread quite thinly and are largely not liquid. However, we are not eager to be indebted.” She looked at Jardani and jerked her head toward Winston. He lifted a small, wooden case onto Winston’s desk and opened it, revealing two horizontal rows of gold coins. Winston drew the case closer to himself and gave the contents a cursory count. All in all it added up to about half of what she owed. He gave her a skeptical look, but allowed her to continue,

“This is what money we are able to offer at this time,” she said, “however, I would like to suggest a barter in addition.”

“A barter,” Winston asked. He looked from the Director to the boy, “him?”

“He is one of my best pupils,” she explained. “I would require him to be returned at night and on Sundays, but he would not take a wage.” Winston was dubious. He scoffed,

“Forgive me, but I’m in no need of a ballerina,” he noticed Jardani bristling in the corner of his eye, “or a wrestler, for that matter.”

“He has other skills,” the Director replied, coldly, “obedient, strong back, and he is very well versed in the tools of our trade. Ask him, if you wish.” Winston turned back toward the boy. He was thin and pale, with close-cropped hair and black eyes weighed down at the bottom by heavy bags. He wore street clothes; a grey t-shirt, sneakers, and jeans which were beginning to fray at the cuffs. Winston could have mistaken him for any kid off the street, so average as to be invisible, had he not plainly displayed several trademarks of their profession. He held himself like a dancer, for one thing, his posture upright but limber, and there was a vigilance in his gaze that gave him away to anyone who knew what to look for.

“You know a bit about weapons, do you?” He asked, hopeful but not expectant. Jardani nodded. “Alright, then, if I were in the market for something light but impactful for urban outdoor use, would you recommend the WA 2000 or the FAL 50?” Jardani stayed silent for a moment, presumably considering his answer, though it was difficult to tell from his stony expression whether he had even heard a word Winston had said. Finally, he answered, his voice soft but sure, the last vestiges of a Slavic accent clinging to his vowels,

“The WA is a rare gun, but that’s about the only thing it’s got going for it. If those were my only two options, I’d tell you to pick the FAL.” Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded cocky or churlish, but Winston heard no ego in his tone, and there was no hint of confrontation in his eyes. Intrigued, he asked,

“And what if those weren’t your only two options?” Jardani thought for another second,

“Dragunov,” he asnwered, definitively, “it’s around the same weight and size and can handle more modification, plus it’s Soviet-made, so it’s more reliable in cold weather.” Winston cocked his head, trying to determine whether the boy had just made a joke. The Director was grinning archly when he looked to her again and she gave a satisfied shrug. Winston sighed, a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth,

“Welcome to the Continental, my dear boy,” he said, adding to the Director, “what size waistcoat does he wear?”

_._._._

Jardani was apprenticed to Mariya, the hotel’s sommelier. She had been complaining of being short staffed for months now, since her last assistant had up and disappeared. Winston led the boy down into the cellar and found her taking a tea break. She stood up when he entered, but he stayed her with a hand,

“Please,” he said, “I’m not staying long.” She sat back down, at which point she noticed Winston’s shadow,

“He’s not yours, is he?” She demanded. Winston laughed,

“No, no,” he assured her, “in a sense, I suppose he’s yours.” Mariya made no effort to hide her confusion. Winston explained, “the Director has graciously loaned us one of her pupils, and I know you’ve been in the market for a new assistant since Jorge’s departure.”

“And he’s it, is he?” Mariya looked almost queasy.

“I’ve heard he can lift a crate like no one else,” Winston replied, “anyway, don’t let me keep you,” without another word, he turned on his heel and began to climb the grey stone steps back up to the hotel lobby. Jardani glanced around the cellar. There wasn’t much light, a row of pot lights alone illuminating the pathway from the stairs to the counter. The display cases were all individually lit, however, boasting an enormous variety of weapons against rich, red velvet. Mariya was ignoring his presence, slowly sipping her cup of tea and eating a plate of small sandwiches. She only acknowledged him once she had finished, standing up and brushing a couple of stray crumbs off of her impeccable black suit. She was about half a foot taller than Jardani, though he noted that a reasonable proportion of that discrepancy could be accounted for by her shoes. She had straight, black hair tied back in an ornate bun at the back of her head and upturned, darkly-lined brown eyes. She asked him his name and gave him hers in return, after which she abandoned pleasantries,

“Do you know how to use a pallet jack?” Jardani nodded, “Great, there’s an inventory shipment coming in about an hour. Meet the truck out by the loading dock and bring it into the storeroom.” She offered no further instructions except to point in the general direction of the loading dock. He began to head that way when she stopped him, a look of wry befuddlement on her face,

“What, are you going there now?” Jardani looked up at her, his face guarded, unsure what he had misunderstood about their interaction. He glanced this way and that before nodding slowly. Mariya laughed in disbelief, “for God’s sake, you’re not going to wait around out there for an hour. Here,” she poured tea into her old cup and slid it toward him, pointing to the chair next to hers, “pretend I’m a reasonable person and have a cup of tea.” Hesitantly, he sat down and took a sip. She nodded approvingly and produced a pack of cigarettes from the purse slung over the back of her chair. She lit one, then offered the box to Jardani. He politely declined, explaining that students of the Ruska Roma were forbidden to smoke or drink while they were in training. She nodded and offered him instead a tangerine from deeper inside the purse. He took it and thanked her, but it remained untouched for the remainder of their break. If Mariya noticed, she said nothing, and for that Jardani was grateful.

The Tarkovsky theatre was more than just a front. When the Director had moved their operation in, the place had been falling apart, taking on water and hosting innumerable mould colonies. They had restored it over the course of five years, and by the time Jardani came to live there it had largely been returned to its former splendour. The theatre housed close to a hundred students at a time, boys and girls, as young as six years old. Jardani himself had been barely eight when he had arrived. For the last five years, he had adhered to the same strictly regimented schedule. He woke at four, ate a breakfast of fruit and grains, and by five was expected to be in either the studio or the gymnasium for the remainder of the morning, switching from one to the other for six hours in the afternoon. Supper was served over a one hour break, after which there were chores and other duties to be performed before their ten o’clock curfew. It was the same every day, an endless cycle of hunger, exhaustion, blood, sweat and tears. Jardani’s secondment to the Continental had complicating things, however. His work hours at the hotel and his cohort’s class schedule were in contradiction with one another. As such, he had been regrouped. Starting today, he would work from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon, then return to the theatre to train from six until midnight. He had been placed into an older group, with boys of sixteen and seventeen. Jardani felt exposed and extremely small as he walked into the studio that evening. One or two wolfish glances turned into five, then six, until he felt every eye in the room burning his skin. These boys would eat him alive, he thought, if he made a single misstep. He had never exactly been popular among the student body. He was too quiet, too unpredictable, impossible to get a read on. He attracted violence. Two boys walked over to the corner of the room where he was stretching. Neither said anything, but the three of them made eye contact in the mirror as they warmed up, each daring the other to make a play. Fortunately for them, it never came to that. The instructor’s voice rang through the room, drawing their focus away from him,

“Vnimaniye!” She pounded the heavy tip of her cane against the floor. “First position,” she demanded. They obeyed, and she began to outline the sequence they would be drilling. Sauté, chassé, grand jeté, et cetera. It was simple enough, and Jardani didn’t have much trouble keeping up, until one of the boys who had been eyeing him earlier deliberately tripped him. He crashed to the floor and everyone turned to look at him. The instructor ordered him back up and the class was forced to begin the exercise again. It happened twice more. The instructor would turn her back to observe the other students and someone would trip or jostle or outright shove him to the ground, then make some comment loud enough for the rest of the class to hear about how a little kid like Jardani wasn’t cut out to train with them. They were trying to get a rise out of him. Jardani understood that. He also understood, even if the other boys didn’t, that they wouldn’t enjoy the result if they did. He clenched his jaw, picked himself up off the ground, and breathed deeply to keep control. There was a time and a place for violence, and it would come soon enough.

He soaked his feet after practice, as he always did, in a bucket of ice water at his bedside. The water, already red from the rust in the pipes, turned a murky brown when he dipped his bloody feet in. He hissed as the water seeped into the wounds, creeping under his blackened toenails. Soon, however, he began to feel relief. The icy water took the edge off of some of his aches and pains, giving him the opportunity to bandage his ravaged limbs and fall into an uneasy sleep, plagued with restless dreams.

_._._._

Winston took Jardani to the tailor the next day to have him fitted for his uniform. Ordinarily he would have left this sort of administration to the service manager, but for an unusual custom order he felt he should be more directly involved. Thomasz greeted him warmly upon their entry, then smirked down at Jardani,

“This must be the young gypsy,” he remarked, “what are we in the market for today?” The roll of Winston’s eyes was nearly imperceptible, but Thomasz’s cheeks nonetheless began to flush.

“Custom uniform,” he replied, icily, “assistant sommelier.” Thomasz nodded,

“Of course,” he said, suitably cowed, “this way, please.”

There was a large fitting room at the back of the shop, accessible only through a door which was camouflaged as a rack of jackets. In contrast to the modest, even spartan decor of the vestibule, the fitting room was more akin to the Continental. Dark wood, Persian rugs and tastefully dimmed wall sconces; it reminded Jardani of the main hall at the theatre. He stood in his underwear on a small riser at one end of the room. He was draped in brown paper in front of a tri-fold mirror, arms outstretched as Thomasz took his measurements. He set his jaw and stared straight ahead into the reflection of his own eyes, pointedly ignoring every sarcastic comment at his expense. Winston stood behind, observing the whole process carefully and occasionally making one or two suggestions about the fit and hang of the jacket,  
“Make sure he doesn’t drown in it. He’s a professional, not a bar mitzvah boy.” Thomasz agreed, making a number of small chalk lines on Jardani’s back before moving on to measure his legs. Jardani inhaled sharply as the tailor ran the measuring tape up his inseam. He accidentally caught Tomasz’s eye in the mirror and instantly regretted it. The look on his face - superior, presumptuous and vaguely sinister - made Jardani want to break his nose. When it was over, he simply walked out of the shop, allowing Winston to hash out the rest of the details. Winston exited a few moments later, casting a look that managed to be disapproving, yet somehow understanding. Even so, Jardani walked two steps behind him all the way back to the Continental.

_._._._

Winston kept a close eye on their little urchin over the next few weeks. He was far from the most social, but Winston noted gladly that the Director had not overstated his work ethic. Every morning, Jardani arrived at the Continental at 6:30, making his way into the cellar through the loading docks and getting down to work immediately. His days mostly consisted of the menial tasks Mariya didn’t wish to do herself: unpacking and preparing inventory for display, sweeping the floor, dusting the cases, and putting up fresh targets in the test range. He was occasionally customer-facing, but only in the capacity of a waiter, filling orders for hot drinks, spirits and sparkling water. He was, by all appearances, an ideal employee, but Winston found himself unable to shake off the last dustings of distrust from his opinion of the boy. It would not be below the Director to send a spy, though she would be aware of the severity of the consequences she would face if her espionage were discovered. No, it was far more likely that Jardani was exactly what she had said: a means by which the Ruska Roma could pay their debts. Of course, that didn’t sit exceptionally well with Winston either. What little he knew of Jardani Jovanovic suggested to him that the boy would some day make for a powerful ally, and an even more powerful enemy. Winston wished to do everything in his power to avoid finding himself on the wrong side of that equation. As such, he did his best to treat Jardani well, as he hoped he treated all of his employees. He didn’t seem to be making inroads, however. Jardani never spoke unless spoken to, and even then he kept his answers short. He never accepted gifts food or drink, either. When Winston asked Mariya if he had been any more forthcoming with her, she merely shrugged,

“I haven’t really pressed him on it,” she said, wiping down the glass top of the showcase one night after Jardani had gone home, “he comes in on time and does good work, which is enough as far as I’m concerned.” Winston sighed,

“He’s a bit of a slippery trout,” he said, “I don’t know that I’ll ever get a handle on him.” Mariya laughed,

“And yet I’m sure you’re going to keep trying. He’s certainly a puzzle.” Winston chuckled in return,

“I’ve never met one I couldn’t solve,” he said with a wave of his hand. He bid Mariya goodnight and made his way back upstairs. He completed his evening rounds, checking in with the restaurant managers, barbers and health centre attendants before retiring to his suite for the night.

Jardani ran from the subway to the theatre, checking his watch every few steps. He was expected at 6:00, and the consequences for tardiness could be extreme. Despite his efforts, it was 6:02 by the time he burst into the gym, still not changed into his wrestling gear. Ivan stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed over his chest. His head whipped around when Jardani opened the door.

“Ah, so Jardani is joining us after all,” he said, “where is your uniform?” Jardani did not reply, looking down toward the mats instead. Ivan walked across the room to where he was standing, towering over him and blocking out the light from the ceiling. He repeated the question, his voice low and menacing,

“I didn’t have time,” Jardani replied, finally. He swallowed hard. Ivan took him by the back of the head and turned his face upward to meet his eyes.

“You know it is not permitted to train in your street clothes,” he murmured.

“But—” Ivan’s grip on Jardani’s scruff tightened. He hissed, screwing shut his eyes against the pain,

“Look at me,” Ivan demanded, slapping Jardani when he did not open his eyes, “when will you arrive tomorrow?”

“Six—” Jardani began, but Ivan slapped him again.

“Try again,” he said.

“Five-thirty?” Ivan let go of Jardani’s hair and crossed his arms again,

“See that you are prepared.” He said nothing further, but remained standing in front of Jardani, an expectant look in his eye.

“Thank you…” Jardani offered, tentatively making for the door to the change room.

“There is no time for that,” Ivan insisted, “we have already been delayed enough.”

“You said I can’t wear these,” Jardani pointed out, impatiently.

“You may remove them,” Ivan said. Jardani ground his molars together, creasing his brow in a way which he hoped would come across as willful, but gave him the air of a wounded animal about to make a vain strike at its captor. Ivan made to raise his hand again and Jardani flinched. The big man laughed and ordered him to strip down and get on the mat. Jardani did as he was told, tossing his t-shirt and jeans aside and padding barefoot to the centre of the room in nothing but his undershirt and briefs. Ivan followed, addressing the rest of the class,

“Jardani has kindly volunteered to demonstrate the next manoeuvre,” he bellowed, “who would like to match him?” Around a dozen hands rose instantly. Ivan grinned as he selected Jardani’s opponent. Peter, a boy three years older and double Jardani’s size was picked. He stood, round shoulders rolling forwards as he sauntered over. Ivan explained the manoeuvre and walked Peter through it a couple of times before setting him loose. With no warning, ge picked up Jardani and slammed him down onto the mat. Jardani wheezed as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Ivan laughed, along with several other boys.

“Again,” he shouted, “on your feet!” Jardani hauled himself back to a standing position, trying to brace himself for the next hit, but Peter came at him too suddenly and he was on his back again. Ivan yelled at them again and Jardani could feel his entire body grow taut, vibrating with anger. He was on his feet and ready this time, blood and adrenaline screaming in his ears as Peter charged him for a third time. He dodged to the side. Peter tried to pivot, but Jardani went for his waist, knocking them both down onto the mat. Peter flipped them, pinning Jardani on his stomach. Blind with rage, Jardani screamed. He turned his head and clamped his jaw down on Peter’s forearm, sinking his teeth into his ruddy flesh until he tasted copper. Peter cried out and jumped off of him, recoiling as blood streamed down his arm and dripped onto the floor. Jardani jumped to his feet and made to lunge for Peter again, but Ivan clotheslined him back down onto the floor. His head missed the mat and hit the marble floor, making a wet cracking sound against the stone. His vision turned hazy for a moment, but soon began to clear. When he came back to his senses, the room was silent. Peter was still clutching his arm to his chest, staring daggers at Jardani. He rubbed the back of his head and felt his gut clench when his hand came away bloody. Ivan pulled him to his feet and dragged him by his arm out of the room. Jardani struggled against his captor’s grip, but Ivan simply pulled harder, threatening to rip the boy’s arm out of his socket if he didn’t comply. He marched him down through the dormitory until they reached the back closet. Jardani was thrown inside and when he tried to clamber out, Ivan kicked him and locked the door. He pounded his fists against the wood, screaming and cursing in Russian until he accepted that it was futile and surrendered. The room was tiny, too small to stand up or fully lie down. Jardani sat, knees pulled to his chest. Alone, trapped in the dark, he felt the rage drain from him, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. The smell and taste of blood filled the tiny space, and he began to feel dizzy. _Concussion_ , he thought, sickening dread pooling in his stomach, _don’t pass out. Pass out and you’re fucking dead._ He repeated it to himself over and over again like a prayer, even as his eyes began to droop. He refused to die, even if it meant staying locked in here all night, wide awake.

_._._._

Mid-morning sun streamed through the stained glass window which overlooked the mezzanine, casting colourful rays across Winston’s crossword page. He twirled a fountain pen in his right hand, mostly ignoring the puzzle in favour of observing the comings and goings of the people in the lobby below. He took a dainty sip from a small china cup of espresso, his eyes lazily following various guests, bellhops and cleaners as they went about their business. He noticed Jardani emerge from the cellar door, balancing a tray in his arms as he made his way toward the lobby bar. Winston could see how tired he looked, even from his distant vantage. The boy’s eyes were even more sunken than usual, his cheeks particularly gaunt, and he seemed to be having difficulty focusing, nearly dropping the bottles of gin and whisky Armand handed to him. He righted himself well enough and was on his way back to the cellar when he suddenly stopped. Winston saw him waver for a moment before he came crashing to the ground. He didn’t even catch himself, falling flat on his face and sending his tray flying. The sound of shattering glass echoed deafeningly through the lobby and before he knew it, Winston was on his feet, rushing down the steps to where Jardani lay.

“I’m calling for the doctor,” the concierge informed him, cradling the receiver of the designated line between her ear and her shoulder. Winston knelt down and took the boy’s wrist in his hand, reflexively feeling for a pulse, which he thankfully found. Jardani began to stir after a few seconds, a groan squeezing its way past his lips as he tried to lift himself on his hands.  
“This way,” Winston said, softly, guiding him to his feet and bringing him toward his office door.

Winston observed the doctor’s examination carefully. Jardani sat in one of the plush armchairs in Winston’s office, a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of tea clasped in his hands. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, his face grey.

“I don’t think this is because you hit your head,” he said, checking Jardani’s pupils, “though I’m sure it didn’t help. Here, follow my hand,” he waved a finger in front of Jardani’s face, first from side to side, then up, then down. Jardani’s eyes tracked it without difficulty. He sighed, “It’s looking like anemia,” he said to Winston. Turning back to Jardani, he continued, “have you been getting enough to eat?” Jardani didn’t answer, casting his eyes down at his shoes. Winston raised his eyebrows, sharing a concerned look with the doctor. He asked again and Jardani let out a long, ragged sigh,

“Restricted nutrition,” he explained, “reduced training hours.” The doctor nodded again,

“I see,” he glanced at Winston, then lowered his voice, “have you started your period yet?” Winston did a double-take, eyes widening in shock. Jardani glared up at him, then nodded. The doctor closed his bag and stood up, “no wonder,” he said. To Winston, “I’ll come back and look at his head in a few days. Until then, he needs to rest and he needs to eat. Call me if he faints again, or if he starts to get nauseous.” He gabbed his jacket from the coat rack and made his exit. Winston looked down at Jardani, staring into the steam from his mug, and for the first time saw a child. He considered his words for a long time, mulling over a dozen options before settling on the simple,

“Stay here until you feel a little stronger,” he said, “I’ll let Mariya know you’ll be back later.” Jardani nodded microscopically, but said nothing. Winston left him alone, locking the door from the outside so as to ensure his privacy. Or was it _her_ privacy? Winston shook his head. He made a mental note to talk to the doctor when he returned.


	2. Chapter 2

**2014**

 

John woke up in a dark room that smelled like stone and stale water. The kerosene lantern beside him cast an orange glow on the area immediately surrounding his bed, but left the rest of the cavernous room in darkness. He couldn’t remember ever having been in this much pain. Sighing, he wondered if he was getting soft in his middle-age. John looked around, trying to parse what he could in the limited light. He was lying on a thin, spartan cot underneath a drab woollen blanket. Bandages encircled his abdomen and there were casts on his right arm and both legs. There was an IV running from his left hand, taped just above where his ring finger had previously been. He heard the sound of a metal door creaking on its hinges and made an attempt to sit up, groaning at the protestation of his ribs and arms.

“Stay still,” a voice said in the dark. A young man stepped into the light carrying a tray and a canvas valise. His face was almost entirely obscured by his unkempt auburn beard and hair. He wore a wool beanie low on his forehead and a tattered down coat: the uniform of the Bowery, and his right arm bore a white band with a red cross embroidered on. As his senses returned, John slowly remembered how he had wound up here. He remembered the Adjudicator, and the roof, and the fall. He remembered the King’s scarred, grizzled face laughing and sneering down at him from his derelict throne. The other man sat down on a low stool and laid the tray down next to John’s cot,

“Dinner,” he explained, then dove a hand into the bag. He changed John’s IV and used a small flashlight to check his pupils, “how do you feel?” he asked. John scoffed, wincing,

“Like hell,” he rasped, his throat dry and sore. His nurse nodded,

“Yeah, sounds about right. There’s a morphine pump over here if you want it.” He picked up a small corded button and laid it next to John’s good hand, such as it was. He took a quick look at John’s dressings, then picked a bowl up off the tray. He brought a spoon of hot soup toward John, who scowled. “You gotta eat, Mr. Wick,” said the nurse, insistently waving the spoon in front of his patient’s mouth, “by decree of the King.” John relented and allowed himself to be spoon fed. It was humiliating, not to mention painful. He could only tolerate a few mouthfuls, but the nurse seemed satisfied enough and told him to get some more rest. He left the bowl on the upturned milk crate that was serving John for a bedside table and quietly made his exit. John stared up at the blackness above him until his eyes grew itchy and sore from exhaustion and he dropped back to sleep.

 

It was impossible to tell time down here, but the lights were on when John opened his eyes, so he guessed it must now be daytime. The King of the Bowery stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Mornin’, John,” he said, “how’d you sleep?” John held up the morphine button by way of an answer. The King laughed, “yeah, we got the good shit down here. Just thought I’d check in, make sure you didn’t shuffle off in the night.” He made a floating gesture with his free hand.

“Nope,” John replied. The King shook his head in awe and disbelief.

“You’re something else, Wick,” he said, “the boys weren’t sure you were gonna pull through. I should have put money on it.” He laughed again, “you got a visitor, by the way.” John couldn’t imagine anything he would want less right now, but he was given no choice. The King stepped aside and in trotted John’s dog, immediately making a beeline for his master’s side. John shakily raised his hand and placed it atop the animal’s head, feeling instantly relieved at the sensation of the smooth, dark fur under his palm,

“Hey, Dog,” he said. The dog let out a happy whine and lay down on the floor, his head propped up on the cot.

“Nurse Joe’ll be by again in a little bit,” the King said, “you need anything, let him know.” He hobbled away, leaving John and his dog alone in the empty room.

 

_._._._

 

It was amazing what could be accomplished with the backing of the Table, Winston thought. Yesterday, the Continental had looked like the war zone it was, but in just twelve hours it was already beginning to seem like its old self again. The damage had really been quite minimal, all things considered. Once the corpses and casings had been cleared from the floor, it was mostly just a matter of getting the glaziers into the administrative lounge and replacing a few perforated sculptures and architectural features in the lobby. They’d had to drain and scour the salt pools downstairs, of course, but the health spa always benefitted from a good, thorough clean. Winston had been making the rounds all day, discussing estimates and viewing Gantt charts with the work crews stationed around the hotel, and by mid-afternoon he was beginning to feel a headache blooming behind his left eye. He shut the door to his office and opened the top drawer of his desk, retrieving a bottle of aspirin. He took two, swallowing them dry, and wearily massaged the bridge of his nose. The last few weeks had worn on him. John Wick had spent the last five years invisible and untouchable. He had found Helen, he had gotten out. Then, just as quickly as he had found her, she disappeared, his only connection to a world beyond the clenched fist of the Table fading away along with her. Perhaps mad with grief, perhaps simply unable to fight his nature any longer, he had found his way back, fighting tooth and nail to keep some part of that tether alive. Wick was a wildfire, tearing through their carefully cultivated world, reducing everything in his path to smoking ash. It had been beautiful and terrible to behold. Winston let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. Ordering John’s excommunicado had broken his heart, the final straw shattering any esteem he still had for the High Table. Their petty vendetta against him, sending John as his assassin of all things, had shown Winston once and for all that they were more interested in retaining absolute power than in fair governance. The fact that he was still fuming after beating them at their own game only cemented in his mind that something needed to be done, and that he was the one to do it, hopefully with the backing of one or two other similarly inclined organizations. There was a sudden knock on the door, startling Winston in spite of himself.

“Yes,” he called, clearing his throat, “come in!” The door opened, revealing Charon on the other side,

“Pardon me, sir,” he said with his trademark deference, “I do not mean to interrupt.” Winston waved him inside,

“Not at all, Charon, not at all,” he replied, “what news?” Charon retrieved a memo pad from his jacket pocket,

“There are a few items that require your attention,” he continued, “firstly, the masons have informed me that they have ordered the stone for the damaged pillars, and that it will be arriving tomorrow morning. In addition, I have received word from the Bowery. Mr. Wick is awake.” Winston’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline,

“Burying the lede as always,” he chuckled, “perhaps we ought to pay him a visit.” Charon nodded,

“Excellent idea, sir. The car is waiting out front.” The concierge turned and walked briskly back down the corridor toward the front desk.

 

_._._._

 

Immobility was going to drive John insane. He had never been much of a sleeper, even as grievously injured as he was, and had spent most of the day staring at the ceiling in a morphine haze, unable to form much in the way of coherent thought, left hand scratching absently at the Dog’s ears. Sometime in the afternoon, he heard his door open again. He didn’t bother to look. It was almost certainly some medic here to poke and prod him or try to force him to swallow more soup, which he still defiantly refused to do. At least the dog was well-fed. 

“Ah, see, he is awake.” John’s jaw unconsciously clenched as the languid melody of Winston’s voice reached him. The Dog got up from his post and cantered over to the new arrivals, gleefully head-butting Charon in the knees. The concierge bent down to scratch him under the chin. As they stepped closer, John noticed that Winston was carrying a bouquet of peonies and snapdragons. He scoffed,

“No balloons?” He asked, cynically. Winston smiled,

“None of them conveyed exactly the right sentiment,” he explained, “it’s the same reason I didn’t bring a card.” He placed the flowers at John’s bedside, “how are you holding up?” John rolled his eyes,

“I’m doing great,” he said, bitterly, “how’s the Continental?” Winston breezed past the question,

“I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” he said, “and to apologize, naturally, for my part in your current condition.” John sighed, his scowl softening. He understood deep down that Winston’s actions weren’t personal, that it was all part of a much larger plan. On a more present, accessible level, however, he wanted nothing more than to wring the man’s neck until his eyes popped out. It must have been plain on his face, because Winston cleared his throat, tensely and laid the flowers down on John’s bedside crate,

“Well,” he said, “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer. We’ll return when you’re feeling a bit better. Do take care, Jonathan.” John stared obstinately at the ceiling,

“Yeah,” he said, “be seeing you.”

 

 

 

**1987**

 

Per the Doctor’s orders, Winston had reduced Jardani’s workload significantly. He was to do no heavy lifting and nothing that would put his cranium at risk for at least a fortnight. Knowing the Director as well as he did, he was certain the boy would not be excused from training if made to stay home, so Winston kept him around the hotel during the day to properly facilitate his recovery. The revised schedule still began on the early side, with Jardani arriving at 6:30 to help Mariya prepare for the day’s customers, but his day after that point had become a lot more leisurely. He worked until noon, at which point he took a mandated lunch break. The Doctor had made special mention of nutrition when he had come back for his follow up visit. 

“You don’t eat, you die,” he had told Jardani, plainly. Jardani had rolled his eyes, but seemed to be taking the Doctor’s advice. He ate sparingly, more so than Winston was entirely at ease with. However, there had been no more fainting, and Jardani seemed sensitive on the subject of his diet, so Winston didn’t press him, even as the two began to spend more time together during the workday. At the boy’s request, the Director had not been informed of his new schedule. Jardani had been certain that he would be punished if she ever found out he had kept something from her. In return, he spent his off time accompanying and assisting Winston with his own duties, which were largely administrative in nature and required little physical exertion. Winston also took it upon himself to teach his new protegé about some of the finer points of society and service, both in the general sense, and those more specific to their line of work. 

“You certainly know how to carry a drink tray,” he said one afternoon as Jardani and Mariya finished their lunch, “and your posture is impeccable, but there is more to a Continental employee than mere appearance.” Mariya laughed, folding up the wax paper from her sandwich and shaking her head,

“Be glad he’s not going to balance a book on your head,” she said. Winston shot her a disapproving glance, though he softened it with an affectionate smirk, 

“Don’t fret,” he added, “I’m no Henry Higgins.” Jardani’s expression was blank and Winston tutted under his breath, “honestly,” he muttered, “ _on connait pas ses classiques_. Another day, perhaps.” He got to his feet and bid them goodbye, returning topside to continue his rounds.

 

_._._._

 

Jardani was beginning to find it difficult to justify how much he still distrusted Winston. Since his arrival nearly eight weeks previous, the man had shown him nothing but consideration, but there had to be a catch. One day soon, Winston was going to cash in all these favours, and Jardani would have to pay him back in ways he didn’t wish to think about. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Kindness without condition was not something that existed for those in the Tarkovsky School, so he kept his head down, did good work, and never accepted anything more valuable than a kind word by way of a bonus. He refused to be plied with presents or to put himself in the position of owing anyone. It was one of the few lessons he had no trouble absorbing from the Ruska Roma; to be in debt was to be enslaved. Jardani knew that better than most. 

 

To make matters worse, Winston now knew about his _condition_ , which put him in a vulnerable position. The Director had told him in no uncertain terms when he had petitioned to be put into the boys’ class that the world would not be kind if he wereexposed. 

“You will never be understood,” she had told him, “and so you will be feared, and since you are feared, you will be hated.” She had given a knowing smirk, taking a drag on a long, slender cigarette, “But then, that is true of all of us here.” She agreed to change his name in the books and allow him to train with the other boys. He was grateful, though he was under no illusions. The Director was not a sentimental woman, she would offer him no protection when he inevitably became a target. He was smaller than the other boys, a potential weak link that would be sussed out immediately. He was also unpopular, his unsettling quiet and penchant for revenge earning him few allies among the students and even fewer among the trainers. The girls largely ignored him, knowing better than to try and befriend him, and seeing no reason to enter into a blood feud with a barbarian. They were encouraged to be reasonable in a way the boys were not, who, on the other hand, were trained like dogs, to seek out what didn’t belong and immediately destroy it. Jardani refused to allow himself to be trampled over, and so knew he would be forced to prove himself every time he walked into a room for the rest of his days.

 

The incident with Peter had raised Jardani’s profile in a way which, while somewhat anticipated, had not been easy. He had made the mistake of humiliating one of the more influential boys in their cohort, who had immediately taken out a sort of crude contract on Jardani, promising status and favour to anyone who caused him sufficient pain. The other pupils began to torment him in more inventive and vindictive ways, on top of the ordinary indignities they made him suffer in the normal course of their days. In class, he was subjected to greater and more reckless violence. Niko had sliced his arm open with a combat knife during a sparring match one night, the wound necessitating ten stitches, which were sloppily administered by their trainer. Another night, during their first rehearsal on the main stage, someone had kicked his knee out from under him, resulting in his being beaten so soundly by the Instrcutor with her cane that his ears rang for hours afterward. Had he been granted any respite outside of training hours, he thought, things might be tolerable. As it was, he was consistently on guard, seldom sleeping for more than an hour at a time. Fatigue dulled his senses, leaving him vulnerable even in his hyper-vigilance. He was cornered one morning in the kitchen by three of the students from his wrestling class, who grabbed him and slammed him against the wall to stun him before pinning him to the ground. Two held his arms and legs, the third sat on his chest and poured a carton of sour milk down his throat, holding Jardani’s nostrils shut with his free hand. He nearly suffocated, aspirating the curdled liquid into his lungs when he tried to take a breath. They stood him up again after the carton was empty, but didn’t let him go, instead hitting him over and over in the stomach until he vomited. They dropped him into a heap on the floor and left him there, hurrying away down the corridors in different directions. He had lain there for as long as he thought he could get away with, taking choked, ragged breaths with his eyes screwed shut. _Get up_ , he thought, _get up or they’ve beaten you. Get up or you might as well die right here._ Slowly, laboriously, he picked himself up off the floor. He wandered calmly to the kitchen sink and poured himself some water, rinsing his mouth and then taking a large swallow from the glass before continuing to prepare for work. 

 

_._._._

 

In two months, Jardani had never been late, so when Winston learned at seven o’clock that Mariya had seen neither hide nor hair of her assistant, he was disappointed. By eight, he was concerned. Despite his cultivated sense of detachment, Winston was fond of the boy, feral though he was. Jardani finally arrived just before eight thirty looking like he had been through the wars. He arrived in the cellar sweaty and out of breath, still in his street clothes. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a moment, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs and taking long, deep breaths. Winston thought he might be sick. Jardani seemed to think so too, though he eventually managed to tamp down whatever was churning in his stomach. He stood up straight again, avoiding his employer’s eyes,

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be late.” His voice was contrite, with a kernel of genuine fear that Winston thought bordered on tragic. He let out a pensive hum, slowly rising from his chair,

“Very well,” he said, his tone trained into a tone of perfect neutrality, “you are dismissed. Please get ready and punch in.” Jardani nodded vigorously and dashed toward the back room to get changed. Winston didn’t want to punish him on such a minor first infraction, but he knew that coddling the boy would do him no favours. They lived in a world of brutality, not one of compassion. He felt no desire, however, to become yet another tyrant in the young man’s life. Jardani would find no shortage of cruelty in his likely brief time on the earth, but the Continental prided itself on being a bastion of civility on the fringes of barbarism, an ethos which Winston tried to embody on a personal level whenever he could. There was no telling if that impression would ever get through to the boy, but Winston was nothing if not patient.

 

**2014**

 

After leaving John’s sickbed, Winston and Charon were summoned to meet with the Bowery King. He received them in his study rather than the throne room, sacrificing theatrics in favour of privacy. He sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, wearing his trademark silk robe, though it was dingy and disheveled. The King was a formidable presence at the best of times, but there was a determination in his mangled face that Winston found genuinely intimidating. He beckoned the two into a pair of leather armchairs on the other side of the desk, then poured them each a drink. Winston held it aloft in a toast of gratitude, taking a genteel sip.

“You know, I’ve always thought you had style,” the King said, a sly grin insinuating itself at one corner of his mouth, “but what you pulled off the other day…” He kissed his fingers and let out a hearty laugh, “Beautiful!”. Winston gave a nod,

“Thank you,” he said, “always nice to know one’s work hasn’t gone unrecognized.” The King’s face turned serious, 

“But I know you know that ain’t going to be enough. So, where is the Continental taking its next steps?”

“We have been considering one or two potential directions,” Winston replied, easily, “but we have no immediate plans to move forward. For the moment, the Table seems to have stuck us back in the fold.”

“There’s a few things I wouldn’t mind sticking in their fold,” the King spat. He continued with a sigh, “Now, I’ve still got a plastic bag where my guts should be, so for the minute I’m not in any kind of position to be making big moves, but we can’t wait on this too long or someone’s going to lose their nerve.” He quirked an eyebrow in his guests’ direction. Winston furrowed his brow, annoyance plain on his face and in his tone,

“It’s not as though my situation is uncomplicated,” he retorted, “my status under the Table is tenuous, my every move certainly surveilled.” He leaned back defiantly in his chair, “I would, in truth, be totally unsurprised to find an emissary waiting in front of the hotel with a Glock upon my return this evening. I need to keep my hands clean as far as the High Table is concerned, for the time being at least.” The King seemed unimpressed.

“We’re in a rough business,” he said, “ain’t none of our hands clean.” Winston scoffed, 

“Be that as it may, I don’t think that haste without forethought is going to serve either of us particularly well. Besides, we’ll need Jonathan in fighting trim, and with a more agreeable disposition.” The King mulled that over for a moment before heaving a deep sigh.

“Alright,” he conceded, irritably “take stock, reopen, we’ll get Johnny Boy all fixed up, but you know my allegiance is a limited time offer.” The King stood, Winston and Charon following suit.

“Earl will see you out,” he said. The King’s scruffy consigliere appeared at the door, gesturing with sweeping hands that the two were to follow him. Winston gave a sarcastic grin and a dramatic bow of his head,

“Always a pleasure, your majesty,” he drawled, following Earl back out of the room.

 

_._._._

 

Some time in the night, John developed a fever. The Bowery medics hovered over his bed the next morning, taking his vitals and examining his dressings. Delirious, John fought against them, lashing and kicking until his stitches tore and they had to sedate him. The drug took hold almost immediately after it was injected and he began to relax. Confused and disoriented, but now without the strength of an adrenaline-addled berserker, he cast his eyes to every corner of his surroundings, trying to make sense of a room that seemed to shift phase between an abandoned subway tunnel and the dormitories of the Tarkovsky theatre. He could hear people speaking in faraway tones, but their words were in an unsettling creole of Russian, English and several other languages. He felt hands on him, and tried again to fight them off, but he was too weak and slow. He was lifted from his cot and placed gently down onto another, groaning against the pain of being moved. His vision blurred as he could feel himself losing consciousness. His head lolled to one side and he saw his old bed, its off-white sheets thickly stained with dark blood. He heard a voice tell him to sleep, and he obeyed, unable to do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sour milk scene is loosely based on hazing that a friend of mine went through on his hockey team. I remember thinking it was the most awful thing I had ever heard, so it's become kind of a shorthand for youth villainy. I'm sure it's not as visceral an image for anyone else.


	3. Chapter 3

**1987**

 

Jardani was beaten the day he got his first period. He woke one Friday morning, horrified to find himself lying on top of bloody sheets. He had quickly stripped the bed, hoping to hide the evidence, but the stain had gone through to the mattress. Adam, one of the student-minders, had mistaken the blood on Jardani’s bed for evidence of an injury and informed the Director. His gut clenched as she glided into the room, his hands and face going cold with dread. She immediately ordered Jardani to stand in the middle of the dorm room with his hands behind his back.

“Adam,” she barked. The young man appeared at her side, “ _prinesi mne remen_.” He rushed off to the cupboard and returned with a heavy-buckled leather belt. Jardani clenched his jaw and faced away from the Director. She hit him on his bare back five times, hard enough to knock him onto his hands and knees. When she was finished, she handed the belt back to Adam to put away again. She loomed over Jardani as he reached behind himself to gingerly examine the raw, hot skin of his back.

“You are not punished because you bleed,” she whispered, icily, “you are punished because you are lazy.” She left without another word and Jardani quickly picked himself up. She was right, he thought. Dancers seldom got their periods, and almost none got them as young as Jardani. He had been taught that you should start at eighteen or not at all, anything sooner than that meant you were eating too much and training not enough. Stiffly, he began to get dressed. He wadded up an old washcloth and stuck it in the gusset of his briefs before pulling his jeans on over top.

 

After he had fainted at work, when the Doctor came to do his follow-up, he had tried to explain to Jardani that this was normal and, in fact, a sign that he was healthy. He had only rolled his eyes. Jardani wasn’t normal. He wasn’t supposed to be. He needed to be better and stronger and smarter than normal, he needed to be able to withstand more pain and feel less sympathy. He couldn’t have any weaknesses, any vulnerabilities. So, he had ignored the Doctor’s advice almost entirely. He ate just enough to keep him conscious and redoubled his efforts during training. Winston still wasn’t letting him do any heavy lifting because of his head injury, but he couldn’t control Jardani outside the walls of the Continental. His victimization at the hands of Peter’s underlings had motivated him to excel in all aspects of his studies. He fought like his life depended on it, which he wasn’t sure it didn’t, and retaliated against every perceived slight until no one would come near him. Even the trainers had begun to leave him alone, which he welcomed. Jardani hated the Tarkovsky theatre and everyone in it. Most of them were there against their will, but where there should be solidarity there was only malice and spite. Students were turned against each other from the start. Like crabs in a barrel, their own destruction already predestined, they clamoured to undermine anyone who looked as though they might craft for themselves a different fate.

 

Jardani had begun to think of the Continental as something of an oasis, so drastically different from the theatre. Sheltered by the ironclad rules of the hotel, he could relax a little and take a break from looking over his shoulder. Mariya told him jokes, thrilled that he knew so few, and taught him cards. He had also begun service lessons with Winston, learning to mix drinks in the lounge during quiet hours.

“That’s about a double and a half, my dear boy,” Winston said, observing Jardani pouring gin for a Negroni, “about a third of that will do.” Jardani poured some of the liquid carefully back into the bottle before uncapping the vermouth and Campari. Winston watched closely as he stirred the drink, then strained it over ice into an old fashioned glass. He beamed when Jardani presented the drink to him, adding the garnish of lemon peel at the last minute. Winston raised the glass, inspecting it closely before bringing it to his lips. He mulled it over for a moment before delivering his verdict,

“Not bad at all,” he said with a smile, offering the glass back to Jardani to sample, “you’ve a knack for this, I think.” He went on to list a number of ways the drink could be varied, “if you were to omit the gin in favour of seltzer, you would have concocted an Americano, had you chosen whiskey you would have a Boulevardier on your hands. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “we move on to the Vesper.” Jardani found himself stifling a laugh as Winston excitedly explained the ludicrous cocktail he was intended to prepare. Winston clearly noticed, casting a knowing glance his way as Jardani tried to disguise his amusement with a number of fake coughs, but he seemed to find that amusing in itself. They spent a goodly portion of the afternoon getting increasingly tipsy as Winston challenged Jardani to craft stronger and stranger cocktails. He would regret this later at training, he was certain, but until then he was willing to allow himself this small moment of enjoyment.

 

_._._._

 

Winston sat in his office after Jardani had left for the night, punching numbers into his old Resulta adding machine. He had been wondering for some time whether, for the right sum, the Director would be willing to part with Jardani for good. Although the idea of purchasing a human being, particularly a young child, didn’t thrill him, there was precedent for such practices in their organization, and it would be for a good cause. He had no intention of keeping the boy as chattel. If the lad wished to continue working at the Continental, he would be welcome to do so on a part time basis, perhaps as an after school vocation. He sighed, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Age was making him sentimental. Twenty years ago he would never have entertained such an idea. Any fantasy he had of rescuing Jardani, of giving him a normal life, was foolish. This life never let anyone go. There were those who tried to escape, running off to the far corners of the globe, but they always ended up back where they started. No, the only way out was via crematorium. Why should it be any different for this boy? _Because he never asked for any of this_ , Winston thought. He had made a choice as a young man to leave behind his chance at normalcy, and while he didn’t precisely regret his decision, it had been his to make and his alone. It was hard to believe that Jardani truly wanted this life, even if he had known nothing else. Still, he knew that getting too attached to the boy was a bad idea. Children like Jardani were treated as little more than livestock, and it was a poor butcher who picked favourites among the cattle.

 

 

**2014**

 

John spent most of the next few days flitting in and out of lucidity. He felt almost like he was underwater, occasionally fighting his way to the surface to breathe before being sucked back down.When his fever finally broke, he remembered only scattered snapshots interspersed with his delusions. He spent a night trying to piece together the previous week, trying to employ a combination of logic, deduction and common sense to determine which parts he had imagined. He found it totally plausible, for instance, that he had received his weekly shot at some point. It seemed unlikely, however, that the injection had been administered by a nurse with a rat’s head. On the plus side, the pain in his ribs had subsided to the point where he could recline at a slight angle rather than being completely supine all the time.

“Oh wow, look at you.” Nurse Joe came through the door with John’s dog on a leash. The entire Bowery had been taking turns walking him, which John actually thought was quite a nice gesture. He unclipped the leash and the Dog bounded over to John as he always did.

“Good boy,” he murmured, dodging the animal’s cold, wet nose.

“How you feeling, Mr. Wick,” Nurse Joe asked.

“Okay,” John replied, totally devoid of expression. Joe sighed,

“Rate your pain,” he said, “one to ten.” John thought for a moment and casually said,

“Seven.” Joe raised his eyebrows,

“Yeah, that’s usually what seven looks like. Anyway, I gotta take your temperature.” He pulled a thermometer out of his bag, uncapped it and held it between John’s armpit and his chest. He waited about half a minute, then checked the reading, “looks like the fever’s gone for now,” he said, cautiously optimistic, “but we’re going to keep you on total bedrest till tomorrow.” John wore his dissatisfaction plainly on his face, but nodded. Nurse Joe changed his IV, then left without saying another word.

 

Charon came to see him the next day, without Winston. The nurses had brought a wheelchair to John’s room some time in the night and, with Charon’s help, he managed to be hoisted into a tolerable seated position. Charon wheeled him out to one of the common areas of the headquarters. It was totally empty, the vast majority of the Bowery’s agents out on missions or on patrol. The only sounds in the room were the creaking of John’s wheels and the distant sound of dripping water. They took a seat in one corner of the room and Charon produced a thermos from his briefcase along with two tin mugs. He poured each of them a cup of rich, strong coffee. He doctored his own with milk and sugar, leaving John’s black. For all the resentment lingering in John’s gut, he appreciated Charon’s consideration.

“Where’s the boss?” he asked, taking a sip from his cup. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed good coffee, heaving a contented sigh. A tiny, satisfied smile crossed Charon’s mouth before he answered.

“I believe he is still overseeing the construction back at the Continental,” he said, “although I cannot say for sure. I do not tend to keep tabs on hotel business on my day off.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a day off,” John observed. Charon chuckled,

“That would defeat the purpose, Mr. Wick,” he said, “I must admit, however,” Charon continued, “that this is not purely a social call.” John nodded,

“Yeah, I figured.” Charon went on,

“The doctor tasked me with ensuring that these made it into your possession.” Out of his briefcase, Charon pulled several small but familiar boxes, a couple of inches tall, labeled in purple and orange, “I was told the Bowery does not keep themselves well supplied with your prescription.” John chuckled, taking theboxes into his lap. There was enough Delatestryl in them to last him close to two years,

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. John had found it easier not to be angry with Charon. They had fought against the High Table together while Winston was sitting in the vault, brewing up triple-cross. Charon was also practical and intuitive. He knew the concrete things he could do in order to prove that he deserved to be back in John’s good graces, and bringing thousands of dollars worth of prescription hormones was certainly on the list. He was also excellent with John’s dog, who seemed to be a fairly good judge of character. Most of all, though, he was kind, something rare and precious in John’s world. Helen had been kind, of course, and clever and funny and adventurous and beautiful, but she was gone. He had her memory, and he would keep it as long as he could, but he knew that even that would, in time, become a pale impression, fading like a photograph left in the sun. So, he knew to hold onto kindness and kind people when he found them. Charon offered him more coffee, but he politely declined,

“No use getting jittery when I can’t move,” he explained. Charon capped the thermos and John wondered if he was getting ready to leave. He was pleasantly surprised when Charon stayed in his seat, scratching the Dog’s ears and sitting with John in a moment of companionable silence. He was grateful for Charon’s steady, reassuring presence. These last weeks had seen John’s entire universe turned on its ear. Less than two months ago, he was a blissfully married retiree. Two weeks ago he was an outlaw, hunted night and day by a globe’s worth of killers. Now, he was a dead man and, simultaneously, the keystone to a revolution he wanted no part in. He hadn’t even had time to grieve, and now he was just so tired. It was all he wanted; a chance to process and feel and try to understand everything that had happened to him, not just since Helen’s death, but going deep into the past. He had tried to leave it all behind: the trauma and fear, the blood and pain, but he realized now that it was impossible to outrun. This was inevitable, this was fate. _How can you fight the wind_ , the Director had chided him when he had come to her just days before, _how can you bury the ocean_? She was right. She was always right. There was nothing else for him in this world, and probably very little to look forward to in the next. John’s distress must have been apparent on his face, because he caught sight of Charon’s knit brow and shook himself out of the pity spiral he had fallen into.

“Is there something I can do, Mr. Wick?” He asked. John shrugged as best as he could,

“Not really,” he replied, then amended his answer, “I guess you could start just calling me John.” Charon smiled warmly and agreed.

 

_._._._

 

With the work crews gone for the evening, Winston stole away from the Continental for a few hours. He had a meeting at the Tarkovsky theatre. He strolled through the grand front doors, nodding his greetings to what guards remained extant after the Table’s raid, and was led immediately to the Director’s office. Inside, she sat on the edge of her desk, dictating in Russian to a young girl behind a typewriter. Winston opened his mouth to greet her, but she stayed him, raising a bandaged hand in a shushing motion. Only after she finished her dictation did she formally acknowledge his presence.

“Good evening,” she said, breezily. To the girl, she barked, “out, now!” Her typist hastily gathered her papers and scurried out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. She took her seat behind the desk and laboriously attempted to light a thin cigar. Eventually, Winston reached across and lit it for her. She nodded her thanks. “It’s good to see you,” she said, “we’re all very glad to have you back under the Table.”

“I think we can dispense with the sarcasm just this once,” he replied, “We’ve a great deal of ground to cover in not much time.” The Director’s face softened slightly and she nodded her understanding,

“Very well,” she said, agreeably, “have you come with a declaration of war or an olive branch of peace?” Winston smiled,

“That very much depends on you. We have each had disagreements with the High Table in recent weeks, and we have each re-pledged our fealty. I must know, however, before we proceed, the sincerity of your pledge.” The Director regarded him with suspicion, taking short puffs on her cigar. After a moment’s thought, she responded,

“The Ruska Roma have operated under the Table for decades,” she explained, “our agreement, while occasionally fraught, has been mutually beneficial.” Winston quirked an eyebrow, tensing slightly in his seat. “That being said,” the Director continued, “fuck them and the horse they rode in on.” Winston barked out a surprised laugh. The Director grinned, pleased with herself and with his reaction,

“Very good,” he said, jovially, “so, may I take it that your assistance can be relied upon in the coming negotiations?”

“You may,” she replied, definitively, “the Ruska Roma will provide what we can.” They carefully shook on it, with Winston taking care not to apply pressure to the still-tender flesh of her hand. Winston stood, making to leave.

“We’re doing _Giselle_ in a few weeks,” she said, suddenly, “I’d be honoured if you would attend.” He turned and saw her slide a thin envelope across her desk toward him. He pocketed it and thanked her again before taking his leave.

 

Winston arrived at the door just as his car came around the corner. He climbed inside and instructed his driver to return him to the Continental. Only once they had pulled away from the theatre did he look inside the envelope. There were, as the Director had implied, two tickets to their upcoming performance, but tucked in between them were two gold coins and a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it in disorganized, looping cursive. He lowered the partition between himself and the driver,

“Change of course, Joseph,” he called, “we’re taking a detour to Hell’s Kitchen.”

 

**1987**

 

There was to be a performance at the theatre in a month, a revival of _Raymonda_ based on Gorsky’s 1908 production. The Director had made a rare visit to the Continental one evening in order to inform him and - out of obligation - invite him to attend. She explained that the rehearsal schedule would be intensifying, and that Jardani’s availability for work would have to change with it.

“Is the boy in a principle role?” Winston asked, dubious, but feigning lack of interest.

“Every role is vital,” she said, “and rehearsals are mandatory.” Winston sighed, peering over his glasses at her.

“Typically,” he intoned, “a deal such as ours comes with fewer conditions imposed by the debtor.” The Director pursed her lips, her entire face tightening in preparation for a fight. Winston, in typical fashion, ended their conflict before it truly had a chance to begin. He sighed, “I suppose, if I must, I can spare him.” She squinted her eyes at him, a tight, insincere smile pushing at her cheeks. She made a show of sardonic deference, bowing her head,

“Thank you ever so much.” Her tone was simultaneously unctuous and biting. She turned dramatically, the deep red velour of her cape catching the light from the clouded sconces as it swirled around her body, and collected Jardani on her way out.

 

_._._._

 

The Doctor had shown up at the theatre on Tueday afternoon, to Jardani’s surprise, just before rehearsal. He hadn’t been aware of any appointments, and assumed it was another concussion assessment or something similar. Yulia, one of the girls’ minders, had been dispatched to collect him during his hour of recreation time.

“You’re wanted in the infirmary,” she said, beckoning him to come with her. He looked around for a moment, wondering if she was actually addressing him or if she was talking to one of the girls in the room, but she repeated herself, using his name this time, and he followed. Calling it an infirmary was a bit of a stretch. It was a room with beds, certainly, tucked away in the basement of the theatre next to the boilers. A row of beds lined each of the long walls, some separated by hospital screens that looked like they were from the Second World War. The Doctor was waiting next to one of the exam tables at the far end of the room, his glasses halfway down his nose as he dug in his valise. He emerged with a few different bottles and vials, then looked up to greet Jardani and Yulia with a nod and a brief wave. It was only then that Jardani noticed the Director was also there. His gut clenched, his mind immediately scrubbing through the last few days searching for anything that he might have done to get himself into trouble.

“Have a seat,” the Doctor said, gesturing to the table, “how’s your head, Jardani?” He shrugged,

“Fine, I guess,” he replied, honestly. He hadn’t thought about his concussion really since it happened. Apart from the occasional headache, which he was used to, he couldn’t think of any stand-out symptoms. He said so to the Doctor.

“Let me take a look at those stitches, too,” he continued. Jardani held out his arm and the Doctor tutted, “well, at least they’re holding. Who did these, Ivan?” Jardani nodded and the Doctor rolled his eyes. Behind him, the Director knit her brow disapprovingly. “Whatever gets the job done, I guess. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” The Doctor showed Jardani some of the medications he had retrieved from his bag, “you told me during one of our last visits that you’d started your period, right?” Jardani nodded, tensely, his molars grinding together involuntarily. He glanced up at the Director for a second, but looked away when her eyes met his,

“Yeah,” he said. The word stuck in his throat and he emphasized it with a nod.

“Well, the good news is that you’re developmentally right on track to have a normal girls’ puberty,” the Doctor replied, “but I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for, is it?” Jardani shook his head. The Doctor picked up a small vial from the table and showed it to the Director, “normally I’d prescribe a kid like Jardani a course of daily leuprorelin injections,” he explained, “it’s a hormone suppressor that can block the onset of puberty. Unfortunately, we’re a little late for that at this point,” he turned to Jardani, “but if you still want to, we can start you on androgenic hormones.” Jardani didn’t know what that meant, but nodded along as though he understood.

“Steroids?” The Director asked, dubiously. The Doctor made a “so-so” hand motion,

“We’re not talking Heidi Krieger,” he said, the hint of a scold in his tone, “just enough to help him develop into a normal man, hormonally.” Jardani couldn’t help but perk up at that. The Doctor noticed and offered him a small, approving smile. The Director nodded, seemingly satisfied,

“Do it,” she said.

“In the end, it’s up to him,” the Doctor replied. He turned again to Jardani, “what do you say?” Jardani nodded, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” he said, eventually, “yeah, let’s do it.” He didn’t cry. He never cried, even when he’d broken his ankle at eight years old, he had kept his cool and simply bitten down on a wadded up t-shirt as his trainer had painfully splinted his foot. Now, though, he wondered if he might. His throat felt tight, but there was a lightness in his chest, relief from a pressure he hadn’t known was there. He managed to keep it together as the Doctor explained how the medication would be administered and what it would do, though he felt he wasn’t retaining as much information as he should. The Doctor gave him his first injection and showed him how to do it himself, then took a couple vials of blood and packed up.

“I’ll take another reading in about three months,” he said to the Director, threading his arms through the sleeves of his coat, “but call me if he starts exhibiting any of the side effects we talked about.” The Director agreed and they shook hands. Jardani quietly thanked him as he was on his way out and got a pat on the head. He made his exit and the Director clapped her hands,

“You’re going to be late for rehearsal,” she announced. Jardani glanced at the clock. She was right, he had ten minutes to get changed and make it to the main stage. He thanked her, bowing his head deeply, and rushed back toward the dormitory.

 

 

**2014**

 

Charon offered to wheel John back to his room before leaving, but John preferred to stay where he was. He had been confined to that little cave for days, and while this wasn’t exactly sunlight and cool breezes, it was at the very least a different set of damp, stone walls. He rolled over to a small end-table bookshelf and selected a volume at random. He quirked an eyebrow after getting a look at the cover. It depicted a man in a skintight, blue jumpsuit, embraced from behind by another with silver tubes covering his arms. Above them was the title of the book, written in round, 1970s sci-fi bubble letters: _Chrome_ by George Nader. He put the book back and went to pick another, but found them all to be in roughly the same vein. The small shelf contained a small but impressive catalogue of gay pulp novels of the 1960s and 70s. _Caves of Iron, The Man from C.A.M.P._ and _Song of the Loon_ among others. John couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s not the whole collection,” the sonorous voice of the King startled John. He clumsily wrenched his wheelchair around to face him. “I’ve got plenty more if you don’t see anything you’re interested in.”

“That’s okay,” John replied, “I’m, uh, not much of a fiction guy.” The King laughed and sat down, heavily in an armchair next to him.

“How you feeling, John?” He asked, “you still look like shit warmed over.” John didn’t respond. He wasn’t really supposed to. The King continued, “we’re going to war, Johnny boy,” he said, “me, Winston, the Director and whoever else we can find up against the High Table. Now, I’m not saying this is a ‘with us or against us’ kind of situation, but I also can’t guarantee you’re not going to get caught up when shit gets ugly.”

“Yeah,” John acknowledged.

“It sure would be nice if I could count on you to be in our corner. Once Humpty Dumpty’s all put back together again, I mean.” There was an arch slant to his tone that almost offset the anger burning behind his eyes. John levelled his gaze at the King, feeling the same rage simmering in his own chest.

“I’ll burn them to the ground by myself if I have to.” A deep, throaty laugh erupted from the King. He slapped his knee and stamped his feet on the concrete floor,

“Atta boy, Johnny, that’s what I like to hear!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's on the same brand of hormones as me because I'm too lazy to do the necessary research on any of the other ones to make sure they aren't being prescribed anachronistically by the Doc.
> 
> Andreas Krieger (known as Heidi Krieger during his athletic career) is a retired German shot putter who competed for East Germany in the 1980s. He was one of the athletes subjected to involuntary doping by Ewald and Hoeppner during that time and gave evidence at their trials. 
> 
> Also, all the books on the King's shelf are 100% real.


	4. Chapter 4

Abram Tarasov seemed to have been expecting him. Winston climbed the steps of a well-kept but generally nondescript brownstone at the end of a long block and was met immediately at the door by a man in a sharkskin suit and garish purple shirt.

“Welcome,” the man said, his accent thick and unassimilated, “please follow me.” He led Winston up a flight of narrow stairs and down a short hallway toward the back of the house. Winston took in the décor as they walked, observing dubiously that the younger Tarasov did not have his brother’s taste (such as it had been). Viggo’s design sense had not been restrained, but Abram’s was positively outlandish. Every inch of the house’s gorgeous dark wood floor was covered in thick Persian carpet, and heavy velvet swag curtains hung in every window. The dust hanging in the air leant the whole place the air of a children’s haunted house, complete with ominous portraits lining the walls in the corridors. Winston was led to the doorway of a large, high-ceilinged parlour. Abram stood with his back to them, looking out the side window with a drink in his hand. Winston’s guide announced their presence and drew Abram’s attention. He gave a friendly nod, but did not smile,

“Winston, my friend, come in.” He waved Winston in, then dismissed the other man in the same motion. He held up the crystal tumbler in his right hand, “will you join me?” Winston accepted graciously, offering a genteel toast after he was served. It was good vodka, smooth and ice cold despite having been served neat.

“To what do I owe this invitation?” Winston asked.

“Business, of course,” Abram replied.

“Continental business?” Winston archly raised his brows. Abram shook his head, apparently not in the mood to be coy,

“I would like to throw in my lot against the Table,” he said, solemn and plain. Winston took another sip of his drink,

“I thought the Tarasovs and the High Table had an arrangement,” he said, feigning a certain ignorance.

“Their arrangement was with my brother,” Abram replied, bitterly, “that I should sow and he should reap. Now he’s dead, I would like to see my share.” Winston grinned,

“My dear man, Viggo’s barely cold!” He raised a hand to his chest, his voice steeped in mock disgust. Again, Abram seemed uninterested in playing along,

“For years I have been the heart of this city, pumping the life blood on which all of our enterprise operates. My mint is the largest on the east coast, yet where is my recognition? I am tired of fighting for my scraps like a wild dog, Winston. I only seek what is rightfully mine.” Winston spent a moment taking in Abram’s speech. He nodded slowly,

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me,” he said, “what assets are you prepared to bring to the table?” Abram shrugged,

“Tell me what you need, and I will endeavour to provide.” Winston briefly laughed aloud and reached out to shake the other man’s hand.

“Excellent, excellent,” he beamed, “not to be hubristic, but I see this being very fruitful for the both of us. What shall we drink to? Entrepreneurship?” Abram considered that for a moment,

“Victory,” he replied, raising his glass. _So much for humility_ , Winston thought as they clinked vessels.

 

With the preliminary logistics more or less squared away, Winston felt he could safely take a step back and lower his profile for a while. The hotel was due to open up again in just under a month, and with the resumption of his managerial duties - and the increased scrutiny that he would certainly be subject to - he would have fewer opportunities to inconspicuously confer with his fellow conspirators. The Adjudicator had made it clear that neither they nor the Table would tolerate any further stunts or power plays, meaning Winston would have to consider the optics of every move he made. It would also mean being unable to visit John, which he decided after a moment’s reflection was likely for the best. John had seemed less than pleased to see him last time, and it was his hope that absence would make the heart grow fonder. He spent a long time that evening sitting at the roll-top desk in the corner of his bedroom drafting post-dated order forms for necessary supplies, which he slipped into the envelopes he would have Charon mail tomorrow to the wholesalers and vendors furnishing the Continental’s grand re-opening. The veil of secrecy with which they conducted business could at times be frustrating - secret rooms in the backs of bookstores and double-entendres spoken in slant began to wear on him after nearly five decades, but he couldn’t deny the convenience of being able to source deadly toxins and orange spice cake from the same retailer. All, of course, with the promise of total discretion. Winston enjoyed dealing with suppliers, it was the closest he ever got to socializing with an ordinary person. Many had been private entrepreneurs who had accepted contracts from the High Table, sometimes even of their own volition. The Tarasov’s themselves had been simple counterfeiters before they had been brought in to mint gold coins, having attracted the attention of the Table for their resourcefulness and tenacity. There were those whose fealty to the Table was without question. Others, however, Winston found more willing to bend the rules, if not contravene them, for the right price. Where Winston was concerned, most had learned that it was in their best interest to not ask too many questions. He smiled to himself, elated that his long-dormant plan was finally beginning to fall into place. There were, naturally, a number of potential failure points, so he cautioned himself against counting his chickens right away, but despite himself he could see no possible course of events wherein they did not emerge victorious.

 

_._._._

 

The weeks passed slowly for John, confined to his bed or chair. He was constantly in pain despite the opioid haze that had settled permanently behind his eyes, and exhausted now matter how long he slept. Nurse Joe told him it meant he was on the mend, but that didn’t do much to assuage his frustration. He was quickly losing patience with convalescence and counted down the days until his casts came off. Nearly a month went by, but he finally convinced his carers to let him trade them for pin braces, allowing him at least some basic walking ability, albeit assisted by canes and crutches. The Doctor came to check on his healing and help affix the device, first sawing through the plaster before molding the thin metal frame to the sides of John’s legs and strapping it in place. A sort of flexible splint was run up the back of his leg,

“This’ll restrict you to safe levels of movement,” the doctor explained, helping John to his feet and handing him the crutches, “if you don’t want these to become permanent fixtures, I’d suggest you keep taking it slow.” The two men shared a look, both of them understanding full well that, while the Doc was right, John was going to ignore everything he had just said. It had worked out for him pretty well so far, all things considered. He also gave John a pamphlet full of exercises he should do to promote healing, which he did promise he would try and do.

“Thanks, Doc.” John said, shaking the physician’s hand. The Doctor shook his head,

“Eh, it’s my job,” he deflected.

“Not according to the powers that be. You going to make me shoot you again?” The Doc rolled his eyes, almost fondly,

“See you later, Mr. Wick. Let me know when you need a new prescription.” He gathered his coat and bag, patting himself down three or four times for his wallet, phone and keys before making his exit. Alone, John looked down at his bruised, twisted legs. They looked thin and felt feeble. He wobbled like he was on ice for the first time as he made the laborious journey from his bed to the closet. The braces were thin enough that he could wear pants over them, and he slipped on a pair of loose jeans. It felt strange being out of a gown for the first time in so long. He tried to put on a t-shirt, but still couldn’t quite get his arms over his head, settling instead for a plain button-up. He whistled for the Dog, who stood up from where he was splayed out on the ground and shook himself.

“You want to go for a walk?” John was never quite sure whether or not his Dog understood English, but he seemed to get the picture, wagging his tail and barking excitedly. John nodded, “yeah, me too.” He patted the animal a couple of times on the head and they made for the door together.

 

John didn’t feel like he could go back above ground yet. He had no idea what was waiting for him outside these tunnels, and if he ran into a fight he knew he wouldn’t stand much of a chance. So he contented himself with wandering the underground. The network of abandoned subway lines was immense, way larger than John would have guessed. He felt his legs beginning to shake after a little while and turned around to make his way back, disappointed to see how close they were to where they had started. He could still see the light from the hallway. His weakness didn’t surprise him, this was the first time he’d used his legs for anything more than decoration in six weeks. He took it as a challenge. Tomorrow he would come back and map a little more of this warren, then again the day following until he knew these tunnels like he knew the streets above.

 

He ran into the King in the hallway on his way back to his room. The big man looked him up and down with an approving eye.

“Walking’s a good look for you, John. Can’t wait to see you behind a pistol again.” The King’s trademark lascivious edge was present as always, but John had noticed it featuring less and less in their conversations. John wasn’t much of a flirt, nor was he insecure in his masculinity, giving the King precious little to work with.

“Thanks,” he replied, “feels good to be moving under my own steam again. As much as I can, anyway.” The King nodded,

“I feel that,” he said, gesturing to his cane, “Doc doesn’t think I’ll ever get around without this thing. He ain’t say that, of course, his bedside manner’s too good for that, but I can tell.” The King looked almost wistful for a moment, but soon returned to his wry smirk. “What the fuck does that old quack know, huh?” He laughed, letting through only a hint of bitterness. Earl arrived in a doorway nearby,

“She’s here, sir,” he said, hastily. The King nodded,

“Thanks, Earl,” he said. He turned and said to John, “keep up the good work, baby. You’re goin’ places.” He waved over his shoulder as he followed his assistant through the door, leaving John standing on the flagstone to contemplate his bemusing parting pun. John shook his head and continued on his way.

 

**1987**

 

“Where’s my little buddy, Winston?” Mariya confronted him immediately when he arrived in the cellar for their Monday meeting. He was taken aback, unaware that the sommelier had been so taken with her assistant.

“Jardani will be returning next month.” He explained about the ballet, but she seemed unsatisfied.

“I’ve got a shipment of small explosives coming in today that I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to heft all by myself.” She lit a cigarette and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Winston raised an eyebrow archly.

“I wouldn’t call the situation ideal either,” he said, “but it is what it is, I’m afraid. You’ll simply have to go back to doing your job for another few weeks.” Mariya rolled her eyes, but offered no retort other than a dissatisfied grunt and a pointed sip of coffee. Winston laid the envelope containing Mariya’s paycheque on the table and set off toward his next meeting. He had to admit to feeling Jardani’s lack as he traipsed over the entire hotel delivering cheques and accepting status reports. He had woken up with a sharp pain in his right knee the last three mornings, and would have liked a little errand boy to do his more menial work. He returned from his rounds and sat down slowly on the velvet and ebony sofa that ran along the side wall of his office, elevating his knee with a painful hiss and massaging the stiff joint. He had barely begun to sink into the cushions when he heard the buzz of his intercom from atop his desk. Grumbling, he hauled himself on creaking legs the short distance between the two pieces of furniture.

“Yes,” he said, depressing the talk button on the small, tinny speaker box.

“The first candidate is here.” Winston’s brow furrowed for a moment. _Candidate_ , he thought, subconsciously mouthing the word to himself as he searched the ether for their meaning. A moment later, it suddenly came to him,

“Excellent, send them in, please.” He sat down and quickly scanned his desk top for anything that could be tidied away. He couldn’t believe he had let this slip his mind. Looking at his day book only made him feel more foolish. In neat, printed capitals were the words “concierge interview” in several places over the next week. Constance, the Continental’s concierge of the last forty-seven years, had announced that she was finally ready to retire, effective as soon as her replacement was found. Much as Winston dreaded the protracted interview process that would consume the next indefinite number of days, and much as he would miss Constance and her namesake virtue, he did not begrudge her. There was a knock on the door, quiet but not uncertain, and Winston cleared his throat,

“Please come in,” he announced. The door opened and a young man entered. He was tall, thin and dark-skinned, wearing a double-breasted suit of navy wool underneath a tan trench coat. He had a briefcase in one hand and a dripping umbrella in the other. Winston greeted him genially and offered him a seat and a drink. The man accepted the former and politely declined the latter,

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” he said. His voice was deep and sonorous, his accent a melodic, upper-class West African lilt.

“Of course,” he replied, “thank you for coming. My name is Winston, I am the manager here at the New York Continental.” He reached out a hand, which the candidate clasped cordially.

“Charon,” he supplied. He dropped Winston’s hand and reached into his briefcase, retrieving a letter-sized manila folder, “here is my letter of recommendation,” Winston took the folder and glanced at the letter inside, just long enough to give Charon the impression that he was reading for content rather than authentication. The seal and signature appeared to be genuine, coming directly from the desk of the manager of the Lagos Continental.

“What brings you to New York, Mr. Charon?” Winston asked, tucking the letter away to one side and folding his hands in the centre of the desk, “you’re a long way from home.” Charon’s glasses had slipped down his nose and he gracefully reset them before replying,

“That’s true,” he said, “although I wouldn’t say that Lagos is my home.”

“Oh?”

“I spent much of my early life in Dakar, then moved to Boston for university. I returned to Africa after graduation and was offered a position at the Lagos Continental. However, I have been anxious to return to America for some time, and New York has always held a certain appeal.”

“I had a similar notion when I was your age,” Winston said, before realizing he had no idea how old Charon was. He did not have a youthful countenance, but his skin was smooth and taut, and his shaved head gave no indication of whether he had begun to grey around the temples like Winston. He continued to ask the gamut of standard interview questions: strengths and weaknesses, special skills et cetera, but both men seemed to understand that this was little more than a formality. His resume spoke for itself, and the letter from Lagos was all but glowing. More than anything, however, Winston was not interested spending his week having the same conversation over and over with equally qualified candidates. Charon gave the impression that he understood this as well, though he would never be so presumptuous as to say so out loud. They wrapped up the interview and shook hands,

“Thank you again,” Charon said, bowing his head deferentially and retrieving his umbrella from the stand by the door.

“It’s been a pleasure, Charon,” Winston replied, “You’ll hear from us one way or the other by end of week.” He opened the door for his soon-to-be concierge and shook his hand again. Closing the door behind Charon, Winston returned to his desk and made a note to tell Constance that he would not be interviewing any more candidates. He poured himself a Scotch and congratulated himself on a hard day’s work.

 

_._._._

 

It was only a week until they opened _Raymonda_ , and the entire theatre was buzzing with manic energy. The Director had dramatically increased rehearsals at the expense of nearly everything else. Wrestling and combat classes were cut almost completely, relegated to a single, two-hour session per week, and studies in literature and music were suspended completely. Jardani appreciated the reprieve. He had been growing tired of being brutalized day after day by students and instructors alike. While the ballet coaches were no less cruel-hearted, their priority this close to a show was to keep every dancer in peak physical condition, meaning that canings and physical punishment were way down. That wasn’t to say that they didn’t take a physical toll. Jardani would spend hours each night treating his brutalized feet, peeling back his severed toenails or taping them down in the hopes that the beds would reattach, which they never did. He walked on tender feet, wincing with each step. He was grateful, at least, that he was no longer expected to do pointe. He did not envy the girls, despite the praise and prestige their ordeals earned them. Prestige didn’t interest him. He often found himself wishing instead that he could be some kind of ghost of spectre, moving undetected through the world until he chose to show himself. It would certainly make his life here at the Tarkovsky more tolerable. Not only would he be able to avoid detection from those who would do him harm — Peter’s gang had largely been leaving him alone, but the poisonous looks they threw him in the halls let him know that his safety was a fragile thing — but he would also have the power to enact swift, brutal revenge when the time was right. Jardani had never been a forgiving person, preferring to take a more old-testament tack in matters of justice. If only he weren’t forced to waste so much energy on hyper-vigilance, he would be able to really make a statement. Instead, he spent his days in a series of cold wars with his fellow pupils, each one waiting for the other to make a move.

 

The conflict ignited the night before they were set to open. Jardani was alone in the shower, cleaning himself as quickly as humanly possible, when another boy entered, fully clothed and without a towel or bar of soap in sight. Jardani immediately turned off the water and made for the door, but found it blocked by three others. He turned and tried the other entrance, but found no sanctuary there either.

“Jesus, what do you want?” He growled, fists balling at his sides. The gang was led by David Borisovich, an imposing but powerfully dense boy of fourteen with sandy hair and ruddy cheeks. His certain future as a low-level _shestyorka_ made him insecure, and his insecurity made him sadistic.

“You’re a freak,” he said, emerging from the group to confront Jardani, “lower than a rat.”

“And we kill rats,” one of the other boys added, energetically. David shot him an angry look and he quieted down again,

“I don’t know why you’ve been allowed to stay around here as long as you have, but it’s disgusting. Having to share my home with you, having to eat at the same table as you ever day, it makes me fucking sick.” David cracked his knuckles and one of the other boys handed him a hammer. “Hold it down,” he said to his gang. They rushed Jardani and pinned him to the wall, one at each limb. David approached, slowly, relishing the power he had over these boys. He turned on each shower he passed, the room quickly filling with sound and steam to shroud their acts. Jardani could feel his face turning red with rage and struggled against his captors. He found some give in their grip by virtue of his wet, soapy skin, but they held him too tightly for him to wriggle free. David looked him up and down with a smirk on his face that Jardani was certain he thought made him look intimidating, but fell just short. Jardani rolled his eyes, which David did not take kindly to. He reached out a hand and grabbed Jardani by the groin, his fingers probing and twisting painfully. Jardani screamed angrily and butted his head forward, trying to catch David in the nose. He missed and David swung the hammer at him, a sickening crunch echoing through the shower room as it connected with Jardani’s cheek. Dazed, he let his mouth fall open, blood dripping onto the tile.

“You fucking freak,” David said again, lifting Jardani’s chin the the hammer head so they were once again eye to eye, “I’m going to kill you, and nobody’s going to do anything about it.” Jardani spat at him, hitting David in the eye with the tooth he had dislodged. Engraged, David hit him again, breaking his nose, before turning his attention to Jardani’s fingers. He continued to struggle against the hands that held him to the wall, finding an ally in the steam that fogged up the entire room. The moisture in the air eventually made him impossible to hold a grasp on, and Jardani broke free, lunging at David despite his broken face and hand. He jumped on top of his assaulter, sending them both tumbling to the ground. He could barely see through the steam and blood, but he managed to grab a fistful of David’s hair and pound his head against the tile floor. Again and again he lifted him up and slammed him down, dodging fist and hammers, until finally his foe simply stopped moving. He stood, shakily, casting his eyes around at the other boys in case one tried to get the jump on him. To his surprise, no one did. They simply stared, slack-jawed. Jardani cut a gruesome figure, covered in blood, his face broken in several different directions. He looked down at what was left of David, lying motionless on the tile, eyes wide, blood pooling behind his smashed head and swirling down the drains. Jardani levelled his gaze at the remaining gang members, daring them to make a move, which they did, backing slowly out the door before taking off at a sprint. Alone again, he rinsed himself off under the spray before calmly returning to the dormitory, packing a few days’ worth of clothes in his backpack, and climbing out the back window into the night.

 

_._._._

 

Winston was enjoying a late supper in the lounge when Charon came to find him. He had been on the job for five days now and was settling in admirably. Winston had taken a risk hiring the first candidate he had interviewed, but so far it was paying off. He greeted the concierge warmly,

“Good evening,” he smiled. Charon did not return his warmth, looking grave and nervous instead, “what’s the trouble?” Winston asked.

“There is a situation which requires your attention, sir.” Winston stood up almost immediately and followed Charon back toward the hotel lobby. Charon attempted to explain the trouble on the way, but was clearly not sure what to make of it. “He arrived a few minutes ago,” he said, “asking for you directly. I have him waiting in the mezzanine.” Winston, confused, followed Charon up the stairs and soon found himself enlightened. Jardani sat in the middle of a large, leather sofa, foot tapping nervously, one hand lying gingerly in his lap. He looked up at Winston with bloodshot eyes, nostrils stuffed with bloody tissue and a black eye blooming below his right brow. Charon opened his mouth to begin a second part of the explanation, but Winston stayed him with a hand,

“It’s all right, Charon,” he said, quietly, “would you give us a moment?” Charon nodded and left the two alone. Winston sat down next to Jardani and surveyed him in silence for a moment. His nose and fingers were obviously broken, but the haunted look in his eye suggested that there was something different about tonight beyond the ordinary brutality they each faced every day. He reached out a hand and placed it gently on the boy’s shoulder, noting in shock that Jardani was shaking.

“I can’t go back,” he said, scarcely louder than a whisper, “I’m never going back.” Winston nodded, and Jardani fell to pieces. He truly looked like a child, choking back convulsive sobs as Winston, fighting his own discomfort with the situation, tried his best to comfort him. They stayed there for a long time until Jardani pulled himself together again and explained what had happened, “I killed him,” he said, “he was going to kill me, so I just…I killed him.” Winston sighed. He was so young, despite his competence and self-sufficiency, he had not yet developed the psychological infrastructure to justify the horrors he would spend the rest of his life committing. He offered Jardani his handkerchief, with which the boy carefully dabbed at his swollen eyes, then brought him upstairs to the managerial suite and set him up with a drink and a set of pyjamas. He made to leave, but Jardani asked him to stay. He wasn’t interested in talking, so they sat in silence, side by side on Winston’s settee as the boy drank his brandy. Winston knew that he should convince Jardani that because his actions had been in the service of protecting his own life, that he was in the right. Looking at Jardani’s quivering form, however, he understood that it wasn’t what he needed right now. It had been so long since Winston had seen someone with a conscience, he couldn’t bring himself to crush it. There would be ample time to program the humanity out of this child, he thought, there was no reason he had to start tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
